


Found

by NuMo



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst And Pain More Like Hurt And Comfort, Bering And Wells The Pandemic Remix, F/F, Mention of cancer, POV Alternating, also Happy New Year, mention of chemo, mention of depression, mention of hugs and kisses because I take the 'comfort' part seriously, mention of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: So 2020 has been a shit-show - not just because of the pandemic, but that played a massive part. Here's a little exploration of what Bering and Wells might look like in present times, without the Warehouse but with burdens of their own to carry. Just a little thing that I thought of yesterday and wrote today; bear with me if it seems hurried.As I wrote over onmy other fic, here's to the end of 2020. Thank you for supporting my writing habits throughout the year; I wouldn't have made it through without Bering and Wells, and without all the wonderful feedback from y'all. This OTP is truly my happy place, and you all are a big part of that. Whatever you have done to make it this far, give yourself some credit, and take it with you into 2021 - we're not done yet with all the BS. This is a marathon, and we're nowhere near the finish line. But! That also means that I will go on writing. Because this is my way of coping, and if I can bring you a bit of joy with that, it makes my day. Happy New Year, everybody. Stay safe and healthy, and be your best wonderful selves as much as you can. Much love to all of you!
Relationships: Myka Bering/Helena "H. G." Wells
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nota bene: I know next to nothing about cancer and chemo. I hope I've done it justice, but if something feels off to you, my apologies, and please let me know!

Her doorbell rings. 

Myka looks up and frowns – she hasn’t shelled out for same-day delivery? Her grocery service has started offering it this summer, but Myka Bering prides herself on her planning abilities, and that includes the state of her pantry. It’s not that hard to keep track of what she has and what she needs, not when your day job includes keeping track of a dozen authors, their books, and where every single one is at, at any given moment. Well, okay, included, used to include; definitely past tense. But she’s working her way back to it, and never shed the habit of meticulousness.

And no, she also hasn’t lost track of which day of the week it is, like Pete usually does.

No, her groceries are supposed to come tomorrow, enough for the next two weeks, just like every other Wednesday.

All of these thoughts pass through her mind within moments as she rises and pads over to the door. Still she is too late; when she opens and looks out into the corridor, the delivery guy is already gone. That’s not unusual: he never lingers, as per her express wishes. She’ll leave his tip under the doormat, tucking the tenner in five minutes before he gets there – the reliability of this service is why she’s so happy with them – and rarely if ever lays eyes on him. Usually, that suits her just fine. She’s no longer on immune-suppressants, but some habits still linger, as do some agreements with, say, grocery delivery services. 

Today, as she lays eyes on the box on her doormat, it’s a problem.

* * *

Your doorbell rings – probably the delivery person. They’re supposed to ring twice to alert you, and then take their leave. But this one has rung once, and now they’re knocking.

You groan out a sigh as you get up and slink to the door. A look through the peephole shows you – not a delivery person. It’s pouring outside, and whoever this is, is bone-dry. 

You open the door the merest of cracks. “Yes?”

“Hi,” is the reply, muffled by a mask. “Um, I think your groceries were mistakenly delivered to my apartment? I’m in thirteen, not twelve, and it says twelve on the label, but this is the service _I_ usually get my stuff from, so maybe the delivery guy just thought it was a mix-up or something.”

You take a closer look – originally you’d thought that the short-ish curly hair and loose clothing belonged to a male teenager, but this voice is female and definitely out of teen age. Whoever she is, her face is almost lost between that riot of brown curls and a plain white surgical mask, her body made shapeless by clothes that look at least three sizes too big, and her hands hidden by purple gloves that clash with the faded red of the sweatshirt. 

You’ve always liked purple gloves more than any other color surgical gloves. 

It’s an odd thought, but then this is an odd situation; you haven’t had anyone on your doorstep, or six feet removed from it, in… oh, ages. 

You’re staring, you realize as the woman six feet from your doorstep shifts slightly. “Oh,” you say, in response to her earlier words about a mix-up. 

“Look,” she replies, sounding a bit miffed, “I only ever touched the box with gloves. And I’ve worn a mask ever since I realized the mistake.”

“Yes, no, of course,” you reply. You didn’t mean to imply- You clear your throat and repeat, “Of course. My apologies; I was simply taken by surprise. Thank you…?” You can at least be polite now, after your staring and your pauses that have offended her.

“Myka,” she says quickly. “Myka Bering. Hey, um, if you get a box tomorrow for some reason, that’ll be my stuff. Who knows, right?” She then frowns and looks down. “And, um…” You follow her gaze and notice hand-knitted socks in soft slippers, in September!, and only then do you realize that the box is on the kind of plastic-board-with-wheels that grocery stores use to shift large stacks of things. “I’ll, uh, I’ll need that trolley back,” Myka Bering says, nudging the item in question with her foot. “Before tomorrow. Or I won’t…” 

She bites off the rest of her words, and suddenly Myka Bering comes into different focus for you. Those curls – you thought they were a short haircut grown out during lockdown, when hairdressers were inaccessible. Now you realize they’re too new to ever have seen a pair of scissors. That frame – you’d thought it simply lanky, in too-large clothing, but now you realize this is a college sweatshirt, probably bought during the time actually spent in said college, when the person wearing it had been a couple stone heavier. The precautions – even just here in the corridor, they speak of a higher-level risk than someone healthy would have. 

There are reasons, medical reasons, why someone might not have the strength to carry a twenty-pound box of groceries from one door to the next. 

“Y-yes,” you say, almost stumbling over your words in your haste to not create another offensive pause. “Yes, of course. If… if you give me a minute, I’ll take the groceries in right away, so you can take the trolley right back with you.”

You’ll need to open your door, though. With her standing there. A stranger, no matter that she lives across the hall. Two years you’ve lived here, but you can count on the fingers of one hand the number of words you’ve exchanged with anyone who isn’t Leena, the proprietress.

You worry your lip – and then you think of your therapist’s challenge, to be completed this year: talk to someone, in person, who isn’t someone you _need_ to talk to. Myka Bering qualifies, right? And Mrs. Frederic would raise a silent eyebrow if you told her that you couldn’t even open the door in her presence. So you take a deep breath, draw on all your willpower, and take a step back into the darkness of your hallway to accommodate the door swinging back. 

Myka Bering will know who you are when she sees you. Your face has been all over every newspaper in town for months, back then. You moved into this building precisely because Leena’s reputation for keeping her tenants’ privacy was outstanding, and now this neighbor of yours will know who you are. But that is exactly what Mrs. Frederic’s challenge was about, after all. 

You step forward, into the light that falls in from the hallway, and quickly bend down to lift the box from the trolley. “There,” you say, straightening. “Will this work?” You hope you sound helpful rather than peevish, but it’s been a while since you’ve talked to anyone. You might not have hit the mark. 

What you can see of Myka Bering’s face, what with the curls and the mask, doesn’t give you any hints, but there seems to be a smile in the voice that says, “This is fine, thanks.”

You smile back, and hope that it, too, comes across as kind rather than dismissive. You do mean it. Even though your heart is beating in your throat and your instincts are shouting at you to slam the door and not open it back up again for at least a week, you do mean it. Because Myka Bering doesn’t know; Myka Bering has no part in this; Myka Bering is simply your neighbor, come to do you a good deed. 

“I’ll, ah,” you clear your throat again, hating how your voice sounds, “I’ll come knocking tomorrow, if your box does end up with me. If that’s alright with you?”

“Oh, please, I don’t want you to go to any trouble-” 

“It won’t be,” you say quickly. It’ll be the least you can do.

It’s later, much later, when you’ve put the groceries away, that you realize that you’ve promised to go out your door, actually leave your apartment, and never thought twice about it. 

Mrs. Frederic’s eyebrow will be impressed, you are sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Myka’s phone rings – her actual landline, which hasn’t rung in _months._

Myka shakes the surprise from her head and answers. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello – is this Myka Bering?”

Myka recognizes the voice and is halfway out her chair before Helena Wells (Helena Wells!) is halfway through her sentence. “Yes,” she says.

“Oh good. I asked the concierge to connect me to you, but you never know, do you.”

“I guess.”

“In any case, I do have a box of groceries here for you, in fact. I simply wanted to check if you’re in before coming to deliver it. Does right now suit you?”

“Oh!” Now Myka is halfway to the door. “Yeah. Um, yeah, sure, I’m home.” Then she shakes her head at herself – she’s talking on a _landline;_ of course she’s home. “I mean, um, I work from home. I’m here pretty much all the time.” And she’s babbling too, so she stops herself.

“See you in a moment, then.”

“Okay.”

And indeed, it takes barely any time at all until there’s a knock on her door. Myka dons a mask and gloves, and opens it. “Hi,” she says.

And it is indeed Helena Wells standing out there. Even with her face half-covered by her own mask, Myka recognizes the eyes, the cheekbones, the hair. God, the _hair._ “I haven’t touched it,” Wells says, and it takes Myka a moment to realize she’s referring to the _box,_ “or… ah, breathed on it. Nothing of the sort.”

Myka raises her eyebrows at that. “Um… alright?”

“I… assumed it was important to you?” Wells says hesitantly. She doesn’t go on, only ducks her head. It seems that pink is rising into the tips of her ears; Myka can’t see the other woman’s cheeks – is she blushing? 

“Oh!” Myka gives a short, embarrassed laugh. “That. Yeah, thanks. I, uh…” She doesn’t really want to go into why her hygiene measures are stricter than those of most other people. “Thanks,” she says, feeling the blush start at the base of her own neck. “I’ll, uh… let me put the trolley down for you.” 

“Or I could… bring the box in? If you’re comfortable with the idea, of course,” Wells adds quickly. “I wouldn’t want to assume, and I most certainly don’t want to put you at any risk.”

Myka blinks. Does Wells somehow know of her cancer? She’s in remission now, but it’s still new, barely a couple of weeks. She still hasn’t quite made the mental switch from ‘cancer patient’ to ‘in remission’ – took her long enough to accept she was the former, after all, to now think of herself as the latter all of a sudden. She still feels suffocated at any mention or thought of that god-awful fucker of an illness; at the idea that it was within her, eating away at her ovary. At the idea that others might take pity on her, might feel like they need to help her or make allowances for her. She takes a stabilizing breath and carefully nudges the trolley out the door with her foot. “I’m fine, thanks,” she says tersely. “Just… just put it down, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Of course,” Wells says, bending down to do just that. “There.” She shifts the box with her gloved hands until it sits smack center of the trolley. The scraping sounds grate on Myka’s nerves, and she fidgets. 

“Thanks,” she bites off, hoping that Wells will get the drift and leave before Myka has to scoot the trolley back into her apartment instead of carrying the box like any normal person. She doesn’t want Wells to think she can’t lift or carry a twenty-pound box of groceries across her own threshold or into her kitchen. 

The thing is, she honestly can’t lift or carry a twenty-pound box of groceries anywhere. She was winded for a full ten minutes yesterday, after tugging Wells’ box onto her trolley to bring it over to the other woman. 

Fuck cancer. She has kicked its butt, but chemo has kicked hers too, and she isn’t back to strength yet, and it sucks. 

When Wells straightens, there is that awkward moment of two people facing each other in the knowledge that the conversation is over, and each waiting to not be the first to say so. Finally, Wells surrenders. “Well then,” she says. “Have a… have a good day. And thanks, again, for yesterday.”

“Thanks for this,” Myka says on autopilot, gesturing to the box. “And, um, you too. I mean, you have a good day too.” She curses herself for the addition; surely Wells knew what she meant.

The corners of Wells’ eyes crinkle ever so slightly, but Myka has no idea with what sentiment. A smile? Disdain? God, how she wishes that masks weren’t necessary anymore. Then Wells simply turns and leaves – and it’s only then that Myka realizes that the woman is impeccably dressed, right down to a pair of _heels_ for a seven-yard journey down a hallway. Black fitted pants, and a sweater that looks so soft it has to be cashmere. 

Myka has become somewhat of an expert on fibers in the past year. It was the only thing she and her mom could talk about that didn’t involve tears, or aggravation, or people storming off (or shutting their eyes and turning their heads away) in a huff. Her mom never once apologized, but she did knit Myka hats and scarves and socks out of cashmere. 

Myka wonders if Wells dressing up like this is a comment on Myka’s outfit from yesterday. If it is, though, the woman can stuff it; Myka from a year ago might have agonized over appearances. Yesterday’s Myka, these days’ Myka, is happy when her clothes don’t aggravate her skin, thank you very much. If anyone thinks badly of her for that, fuck ‘em too. 

That’s the thing with masks, though – they hide so much; you never know what a person might be thinking. Maybe Wells wasn’t judging. Maybe she’s one of those people who always put on good pants and make-up when leaving home. Maybe she’s one of those people for whom sharp clothing is armor, or at least reassurance. You never know.

Myka shakes herself out of her thoughts and turns towards the task of getting her groceries inside before Wells can reach her own apartment door and potentially look back to see Myka gawping. She’d probably come to the wrong conclusion: that Myka is staring because Wells is famous. Or notorious, anyway. Myka knows the name and some backstory, and said backstory – or at least the rough details of it that made it to Myka’s admittedly small awareness of the bright, young and beautiful of this city – isn’t of the kind that Myka wants to dwell on. And she would bet that Wells doesn’t want people to dwell on it, either.

So she retrieves her box and scoots it into the kitchen, and takes up the disinfectant and wipes she’s laid out in preparation. It’s something that her doctor has said isn’t strictly necessary anymore, but some habits die hard, and being immunocompromised for _any_ length of time really makes you buy into the whole ‘better safe than sorry’ mindset. She opens the box and starts going through the contents methodically, separating items that will be wiped down or washed from items that will simply be poured from one (potentially contaminated) container from the store into another, clean one from her own cupboard. 

There’s a carton of chocolates in there that she has most certainly not ordered. Myka lifts it in one gloved hand and sees a sticky note on the side that says, ‘my apologies and thanks, from #12’. It’s in Rodrigo’s handwriting (she’s been getting groceries from this service for more than half a year now; she knows the people behind it), but-

Helena Wells has bought her chocolate. 

And not just any chocolate – this is the sinfully expensive kind that Myka treated herself to after being told she was officially in remission. The kind that she hasn’t had since. This collection of truffles, she knows, is worth more than the entire rest of the box.

Myka wonders what Rodrigo might have thought as he wrote the note and stuck it to the chocolates and put the whole thing in with Myka’s groceries. He probably was grinning; he’s a bit like Pete in that aspect. Probably thinks of this as a meet-cute or something, when it was nothing but awkward pauses and flaming cheeks behind surgical masks.

Groceries now safely put away, Myka dithers for a moment, then makes up her mind and heads to the door again – new mask, new gloves, better safe than sorry. She knocks on twelve’s door, then stands back six feet to wait, just like yesterday. 

It takes twenty-four seconds, this time, for the door to open. Once again, it’s not more than a crack with a shadow behind it. “Yes?”

Myka holds up the box of chocolates. “I can’t accept this,” she says. “All I did was clear up a mix-up and walk a box of groceries down the hallway. That doesn’t merit this kind of thank-you gift.”

“On the contrary,” Wells says. “You’ve been more helpful than you realize.”

Myka frowns. “I have?”

“You have. The conversation we had allowed me to tick off a to-do I’ve had on my list since the beginning of the year.” There is a soft exhalation that might be a laugh. “Speak with someone, an actual other person, outside your apartment. Just wait until my therapist hears of it.”

Myka looks down at the box in her hand. “Tell you what,” she says on an impulse. “If you ever feel like it, come visit and we’ll have them together. As a celebration.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder. “You know where I live,” she adds conspiratorially, and turns, and saunters away, and doesn’t turn back, and sinks against the inside of her door in a mix of self-congratulation and absolute mortification. 

Did she just flirt with Helena Wells?

* * *

You blink as you shut the door, and swallow dryly at the memory of what you just saw. You exhale a soft gasp when you realize that you want to take Myka Bering up on her offer. 

Her _flirtatious_ offer. 

Because that can’t have been anything else. 

She must know who you are, though, and that thought gives you pause. Why is she flirting with you? What is she looking for, angling for; what advantage does she seek?

The questions leave a sour taste in your mouth, more so because you’re not sure Myka Bering deserves it. Those bloody masks – you used to be quite the judge of character, before the pandemic and its mask, before… before the accident and you hiding yourself away in this apartment. 

Mrs. Frederic, when you speak with her about the whole thing a day later, raises her eyebrow at you indeed, and you vow to yourself to take that offer, flirtatious or not, and see what comes of it. Even if it’s nothing, one conversation can’t be all that difficult, and the chocolate will be worth it.

And so, a few days later, you find yourself knocking on the door to apartment number thirteen, wearing mask and gloves, and clothes that don’t clash with the white of the former and the purple of the latter. You had a devil of a time finding something to wear; everything in your closet is years out of date – but then, you tell yourself, Myka was in soft, comfy clothing all three times you’ve seen her. But then, you tell yourself also, Myka Bering very probably chooses to dress her body for comfort rather than for a random neighbor, and that is absolutely warranted, considering your suspicions about her health. 

You hope sincerely that you’re not overdressed to the point where she might feel bad about her own clothes. Too late, though; you’ve knocked and now you hear soft rustling noises behind the door. When Myka opens it, you would swear that she breaks into a smile behind the mask. And then she looks down, and what skin you can see with her hair and her mask blushes ever so slightly. “Hi,” Myka says, and it sounds surprised and breathless.

“Hello,” you reply. “It appears I talked myself out of my apartment again. I will add, though, that I was promised chocolate.”

Myka’s eyes crinkle – she is smiling, you’re sure now, and she opens her door wide, so easily that you feel instant envy. “I, uh,” she says, and her next words explain the blush, “might have started without you. But it was just the one, just now!”

She moves back from the threshold and you step forward. Her hallway is the same as yours, only turning towards the left instead of the right, which makes sense, of course. When you step into her living room, you can’t stop the gasp that escapes you at the sight of bookshelves that eclipse your own. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah, um,” Myka says, shifting where she stands. She can’t be embarrassed, can she? Not of _books._ “I like books.”

She _is_ embarrassed. You immediately decide to set her at ease. “That seems an understatement,” you tell her warmly, then you look around. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

“Be my guest,” Myka shrugs as she trails after you, but she does seem somewhat heartened. 

“I seem to notice a certain proclivity,” you say after a few minutes of perusal. 

“Spec fic and crime, yes,” Myka nods, and her eyes crinkle again. “Crime for the joy of figuring out whodunnit, and spec fic to take my mind to the farthest reaches of the universe, or back or forward in time, or to another world entirely.”

You take in the rows and rows of books. “You seem well-traveled, then.” 

“Professional hazard,” Myka says with another shrug. 

Your eyebrows rise. “You work in publishing? Or do you write, yourself?”

“The former,” Myka says and rubs the back of her neck; you wouldn’t wonder if it was the latter, too, but you know that such things can be held very closely to one’s heart, and aren’t surprised that she’s not letting on. “The last couple years have seen an explosion in the genre,” she goes on. “I’m lucky to be part of it. Especially since we’re now specifically finding and publishing authors that aren’t white, male, straight, cis… you know,” she finishes awkwardly. 

“I do indeed,” you say with a sigh. “If anything makes me hopeful for the human race, it’s news like that. Tell me, Ms. Bering-”

“Myka,” Myka insists.

“-Myka,” you repeat, and hope she sees your eyes smiling, “is it working? For your publisher, I mean?”

Myka nods. “The last three years have been our strongest, one after the other,” she says. “Granted, we’re a small house, but still. We’ve started printing larger numbers for first editions across the board, because they sell out so quickly.”

“That’s… encouraging to hear,” you tell her. Your gaze falls on the coffee table, and you see the evidence of what she told you earlier – the box, opened, and a half-eaten truffle. “Ah.”

Myka blushes instantly, strongly enough to leave no doubt whatsoever. “Just… just the one.”

“Half of one, even,” you say, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. You only hope she won’t take it amiss.

“Oh my god.” Myka dives quickly to pick up the evidence and hide it in her hands. “I’m so sorry. I just… It’s been…” she hesitates, obviously loath to reveal whatever made her open the box. 

“A hard day?” you suggest. You can see the still-open laptop next to the chocolates, and nod at it. 

“Yeah,” Myka sighs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“That is precisely what good chocolate is for,” you tell her. “May I?” You gesture to the couch, and then you remember. “Oh,” you add, “I’ve gotten tested for the virus. Four days ago. Got the results yesterday, and I’m not infected. Which only makes sense; I haven’t left my apartment in months, and the only contact I’ve had is with the delivery service I employed before I switched to yours. I’ll keep the mask on, of course, just to be on the safe side. I know the tests can yield false negatives.” You cast your eyes aside for your next words. “This virus scares me,” you admit. “Chills me to the bone. I’d never do anything that would put me, or someone else, at risk of contracting it.”

“I’m getting tested all the time,” Myka replies to that. “Every time I see a doctor, which-” She breaks off and shakes her head.

“I understand,” you say quickly, trying to prevent her from feeling awkward. 

“Yeah, so, I’m negative too. Just like you, I hardly see anyone these days, now that-” Again, she stops herself.

You’re quite sure you know what she means. You’ve noticed a man coming and going regularly; daily a few months ago, less and less frequently recently – you might not have been spying, exactly, but you do take notice of commotion in the corridor, and you’re too curious not to look at what the security camera above your door shows you. You used to think he was the partner of whoever lived in thirteen but you weren’t sure; you never saw goodbye kisses in the doorway, for example. 

Now you think that he was probably a nurse, or similar care worker. 

“I had cancer,” Myka bursts out. She inhales sharply, and lets it out in a huff that rattles within her torso (which, once again, is clad in a loose sweatshirt; a dark green one today that brings out the lighter green in her eyes). She sounds oddly exhilarated, though, and when she goes on, you understand why. “I love that I get to talk about it in the past tense now. I’ve been declared in remission a month ago.”

“Congratulations,” you say, trying to keep your thoughts on the happy outcome and not on the brutal experience that doubtlessly led to it. 

“Thanks.” She looks down at her hands for a moment; when you do the same, you see how loosely the nitrile gloves hang on her fingers. “Anyway, I’ve been… I’ve been very careful. Because of that. And I… um, I asked my doctor, yesterday. He says if both our bubbles are safe, we can consider combining them. Otherwise I…” She pauses, and her mask moves – she is probably biting her lips, or running her tongue across them, something like that. “I wouldn’t have let you in,” she says quietly but bluntly. “Would’ve apologized for my cockiness the other day, of course, but-”

“No explanation necessary,” you say. You want to set her at ease; none of this is her fault. “You need to take care of your health; that is more than understandable.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, running her hand through her hair – or starting to, at least. You can see the glove snagging on it and wince in sympathy. “Anyway, if… if you wanted to – I mean you did say you haven’t seen people, so you might not-”

“I should.” The words come out of your mouth fast enough to surprise not only her but yourself too, especially since, again, you find you want to. “I… I want to. And not just because I should.” You gesture around the room. “A person with bookshelves instead of a TV? I feel right at home already. Besides, you have exceptional taste in chocolate.”

“And you haven’t had any yet!” she exclaims, sounding mortified. “Please, go on, help yourself.” But when you reach out, she goes on, and her words stop your hand in mid-air. “If… if you want to, you can take the gloves off. Your mask, too,” she adds. “If we’re to… combine bubbles. Right? Only makes sense, right?”

“It does,” you say. “Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course. Let me show you.”

You count to thirty twice as you wash your hands; you don’t want to take any chances. Myka’s bathroom is uncluttered, everything in its precise spot. There are no meds out on the counter, but plenty of boxes and cupboard space where they might be – then you tell yourself not to pry. You wouldn’t want her to pry into your bathroom if – when – she comes over to visit you.

Someone visiting you – now that will be something to tell Mrs. Frederic. 

You tug off a few leaves of toilet paper to wrap around the gloves and mask as you return to the living room. “Do you-” Your voice leaves you at the sight that greets you. 

Myka Bering has taken off her mask, too, and she is beautiful. 

Yes, her skin is still translucent and that translates to pallor in her cheeks and to bags under her eyes, and yes, her features are still thinner than you’re sure they were, but still, her face has a beauty you cannot help but notice, especially when she looks up at you and smiles in a way that you can only call radiant. “Hey,” she says, “nice to meet you.”

You can feel yourself blush and in any other circumstances you’d hate that – but it makes her smile turn impish and you find that hate is the last thing you have for _that._ You clear your throat and hold up the bundle in your hands. “I forgot to ask beforehand,” you say, “but do you have a special bin for these, or do I just dump them in your bathroom bin?”

“Bin- oh, garbage!” she says, and now she’s laughing. “Yeah, hang on, let me show you.” She is off the sofa again and precedes you to the kitchen this time, where she opens a cupboard to reveal a lidded rubbish bin that opens at a wave of her hand. “Motion sensor,” she says with a roll of her eyes and another laugh. “One of the many changes that were made to this apartment in the course of… well. You know.”

“Your treatment?” you ask, wondering if it’s okay to bring it up.

Her smile wanes slightly, but doesn’t disappear; instead she rolls her eyes again. Before you can deposit your protective equipment, her hand on your arm stops you. “Wait,” she exclaims. “Did you cut the straps? Birds tangle in them when they pick masks out of landfill.”

You could curse yourself. “I forgot,” you admit. 

“No worries,” she says, “it’s not like I have scissors lying around in my bathroom for the purpose. Here, let me get them for you.”

And then you both wash your hands again, standing at her kitchen sink side by side as if this is the most natural thing in the world, as if you do this every day, as if you haven’t been a hermit for the last two years and change.

She bumps into you and apologizes profusely; you bump into her and wonder if it’ll leave a bruise, almost too mortified to get an apology out to her. She smirks and tells you not to make it weird, please, and you could kick yourself. Instead you promise her you won’t, and it’s the sincerest vow you’ve made in a long time. 

The chocolate is incredible, and then she serves up tea to go with it, blushing and mumbling excuses that are rooted in you being English far more than they are in the quality of her tea, which is exceptional. 

And then you tell her not of the accident – she knows about it already, she confesses – but about the story that came after, the one nobody knows. The one where you were pregnant, and miscarried from the injuries sustained. The one where you were comatose, and your husband gave the hospital the go-ahead to dispose of your child’s body. The one where he didn’t understand why it upset you so – “it was a fetus, Helena, barely four months old” – the one where you couldn’t handle seeing his face one moment longer. 

“At least he kept his promise to keep that story out of the press,” you finish. With a deep breath and a gesture towards your apartment, you add, “When I was discharged from the hospital, I moved in here. Fell into depression for a long time, started to claw my way out of it in January – new years are always so full of potential, aren’t they? And then, well.”

“And then the pandemic hit,” Myka nods. The emotion in her eyes isn’t pity; it’s understanding, its much nicer cousin. “For me it fell right in between my surgery and the first cycle of chemo. It was… confusing; people at the hospital weren’t all that sure how to adapt their procedures, so the first cycle was, like, maximum security measures, hazmat suits and everything.”

Your jaw drops; you don’t remember your own hospital stay very clearly, but to imagine interacting with nurses and doctors only through plastic face shields and rubber gloves! “That must have been awful.”

“Yeah,” Myka says and rubs the back of her neck. “Pretty much. It got better after that, but that first one… yeah, not pretty.”

You hesitate, but only for a moment. Then you push your hand forward and lay it gently on her arm. You don’t say anything; ‘I’m sorry’ would feel wrong and you have no idea what else to say beyond ‘that must have been awful’, which you have already said. 

Maybe she’ll know that you haven’t voluntarily touched another person since… since that row with Nate, since you sent him away. Maybe she’ll know the meaning of the gesture. And even if she doesn’t, if she only takes comfort from it – you realize, suddenly, that that will be enough. This isn’t about you, it’s about her. It’s been a while since you wanted to give someone else comfort. Since, you remind yourself, and your inner voice sounds like Mrs. Frederic, you had it in you to give someone else comfort.

She looks up at you, and her eyes are luminous. Shiny with a few unshed tears, but she blinks them away and smiles at you, going from reminiscence to firmly in the present in a matter of seconds. Her smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You’re pretty sure the expression you give her in return is merely the travesty of a smile; you haven’t smiled in so long and your muscles feel weird as they perform in this fashion now, but she gives you a look of encouragement and approval, so it can’t have been all that bad. 

You want to see that look more often. It hits different, coming from her, than it does coming from your therapist, that much is certain.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not easy. Myka snorts at the thought; of course it’s not – she’s still a cancer patient even in remission, Helena is still struggling with grief and depression, and there is still a global pandemic going on. But at least she has someone to talk with now who isn’t a doctor or nurse – kind and caring though Steve is, his visits are professional ones, not friendly ones – and who also isn’t on the other side of a screen. 

She knows precisely how often, in the course of their newborn friendship, she has touched Helena or Helena has touched her. She knows precisely when that count surpassed the count of medical personnel touching her for medical reasons, even if that medical reason was to give a bit of human comfort in the sterile environment of the chemotherapy ward.

It took a while; Helena doesn’t seem to be touchy-feely, and that’s okay. Not everyone is Pete, after all, who will hug you at the drop of a hat – or used to, before Myka moved halfway across the country. But Myka can’t help herself: she wants to hug Helena. She wants to be hugged by Helena. And if she’s absolutely honest with herself, she wants to do a little more than hugging, but… Their friendship benefits them both, so much, and taking it from friendship to ‘a little more’ could jeopardize that, and that’s the last thing Myka wants. 

Helena is good for her, and she is good for Helena. That is enough; that can be enough, and maybe it has to be enough. It is something to cherish and not risk. Hugging – yes, okay. That is something Myka can work towards, that is something she can try and find out if Helena would be amenable to. That wouldn’t jeopardize anything, not at this point. 

And so, one night when they’re at Myka’s place reading (which happens six nights out of seven, and tonight is one of them), and the story that Myka is reading gets a bit emotional, she allows those emotions closer to the surface than she usually does. 

And Helena notices, because that’s how close they’ve grown. 

And Helena puts her hand on Myka’s arm, because that’s what they do when this kind of thing happens. 

What’s new is that Myka turns to Helena and takes that hand in hers and asks, “Could… would you hug me? Just for a moment?”

What’s amazing is that Helena does, immediately and without any kind of hesitation, open her arms and pull Myka into them. The angle is awkward and makes Myka’s leg curl weirdly, but oh, to feel embraced is so, so wonderful.

Myka can feel her breaths get deeper and more uneven, and knows that she needs to disentangle herself now or risk ‘a bit emotional’ turning into ‘full-on bawling’, and then Helena croons a soft hum into her hair and says, “It’s alright, darling,” in that way she has, and Myka is a goner. 

“Sorry,” she croaks after an indeterminate length of time. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s alright,” Helena says again, and her hand gives the gentlest of squeezes to Myka’s shoulder blade. “Believe me, I know the appeal and power of a good cry in friendly arms.”

“Oh.” Myka straightens and finds a tissue to wipe her face and blow her nose. “Of course you do,” she says, berating herself for not realizing. Well, there’s one way to remedy that. “So, um, if you… if you ever need one, I’m here, okay? Arms getting less bony by the day, too,” she adds, trying to keep things light or make them light again, anyway.

“I’ve noticed you carrying the box into the kitchen these days,” Helena says with a small smile. 

“You never said anything!”

“I didn’t know if it would make you feel awkward,” Helena admits. “Your progress leaves me awed, proud, happy, but… I also know, by now, that you don’t like to dwell on these matters, so I don’t.”

 _Awed, proud, happy,_ Myka thinks. _Wow._ “That’s…” She swallows.

“See, this is precisely what I mean,” Helena says. “I’m sorry, Myka. Please, just forget I said anything.”

“I won’t,” Myka tells her softly. “And that’s okay. Because it means something to me. It… Just… just let’s not talk about it again?”

“Consider it done,” Helena says and she sounds incredibly relieved. 

Still, though, when Myka’s hair is long enough that she can pull it into the tiniest of ponytails: Helena does comment on that, when Myka knocks on her door that morning. It’s New Year’s Eve, and Myka was going to go over later today anyway, but after this discovery in front of the mirror, she couldn’t wait.

“Look!” is what Myka squeals when Helena opens, and hopes that her enthusiasm will give Helena license to gush a little, too.

She’s not prepared for Helena’s reaction, though; the smile that lights up Helena’s features is so soft and gentle and full of utter _joy_ that it clean takes Myka’s breath away. “Look at you,” Helena says, voice thick with the same emotions, and pulls Myka into her apartment. Her hand strays upwards as if to touch, and then stops in mid-air, unsure if the gesture would be welcome or not.

“Please,” Myka says. “I’ve been fiddling with it all morning; please feel free.”

It’s not the stubby little ponytail that Helena touches, though, but Myka’s jaw and temple, where the hair is still not long enough to be included and hangs free over her ears. Myka was about to roll her eyes and complain that she still has so long to wait before she can pull it all back, but Helena’s fingers stop her words right in her throat. 

“You look so different, with your hair like this,” Helena says. Her voice is curiously detached even as her eyes roam Myka’s jaw, ear, cheek, neck, before they return to meet Myka’s gaze. Then Helena blushes, fiercely and completely, from her chest right up to the tips of her ears. She snatches her hand away as if Myka’s skin is scalding hot. “Apologies,” she murmurs, turning and retreating – fleeing, almost – into her living room. 

Myka is left standing in the hallway with about a million questions she doesn’t have an answer to, beginning with ‘what _was_ that?’ “Helena?” she asks cautiously. “Is it… Should I leave? Are you okay? Do you need a moment?”

“No!” Helena cries wildly, and Myka realizes that her questions were too imprecise – she has no idea what to do with that ‘no’, which of her questions it refers to.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wincing as she does so, “which one was that a no to?”

She doesn’t receive an answer and is just about to interpret that as a request to leave when Helena appears in the doorway to the living room, hand outstretched. Myka immediately steps forward and takes that hand, and lets herself be pulled into the other woman. She wraps her arms securely around Helena’s shoulders; she might still have no idea what this is about, but it’s clear as day that Helena wants the comfort of a hug, and that, Myka can and will easily provide.

* * *

“It scares me,” you whisper after a moment of reveling in the feeling of Myka’s arms around you; a feeling that you know you don’t deserve. 

Myka stiffens the tiniest little bit, and you berate yourself. “What does?” she asks, and you pull away and turn from her. 

You can’t answer her. Instead you escape to your living room and do something you haven’t done since you met her – you start pacing, hugging yourself to keep from gesticulating, and maybe also to retain something of the warmth you felt when Myka held you. But you have no claim to that, and you should tell her so and why. It is the last day of the year; you don’t want to start the new one with that between you. 

“Helena, what scares you?” she asks, and oh, her voice is so gentle.

You bite back your tears and your impulse to run back into her arms again. “This,” you whisper, gesturing in the direction of her voice without turning or looking. 

“Why?” She sounds closer now; outside of your pacing space but not by much. Once you turn, you’ll probably be walking straight towards her. 

Instead you stop, staring straight ahead at your bookshelves. On them you can see at least three novels she has given you in the past weeks, and that is not helping at all. “Because I think I…” You can’t go on. You can’t bring yourself to say it. It’s too enormous and too fragile at the same time, and if it bursts, you know it will take you with it. And that’s what you’re afraid of. 

There is a hand on your shoulder, and you close your eyes in supplication. You _can’t-_

“You know,” she says, gentle and light as if it was of no great consequence, “I think I have fallen in love with you.”

Your eyes fly open, and your entire body tenses. She-

The hand changes position as she steps around you, into your field of vision. “And in this hell of a year, that is the best thing that has happened to me. Maybe,” she adds, and her eyes _shine,_ in that way they have, “maybe the best thing that’s happened to me ever.” You are still struck speechless, and the expression in her eyes gains a twinkle. “You know, I was about to say that even if you don’t love me back this still makes me happy, but seeing you like this-” Her hand comes up and cups your cheek and you realize that your mouth is hanging open, “-I think I know what’s got you so scared. And you don’t need to be.” She leans forward and kisses your opposite cheek. “You don’t need to be.”

It’s the last day of the year, a time when one thing changes into another. That’s what your thoughts cling to as her words and lord, her kiss, wreak havoc on your brain functions. You cling to what happened in the last few days: the two of you spent Christmas together; you met her parents on a Zoom call and tried not to be envious, tried to keep in mind the fraught relationship she has with both of them. You held her head in your lap while you watched a Christmas movie; she fell asleep and you felt altogether too tenderly to rouse her, so you watched the Netflix menu for more than an hour until she woke up by herself. 

You gave her a dictation software and microphone setup because too often her hands are still too numb to type, and she has sung its praises already. But you know it doesn’t compare to her present for you, because she gave you a flash drive with her manuscript draft on it, and you’ve never gotten a more precious Christmas gift. 

You have been spending days together, all day every day, in fact, for weeks. And the more time you spent with her, the less you felt as though you deserved it, the more you felt like a fraud, like you were leading her on – and now-

“You-” Your voice breaks, and you swallow and start over. “You love me?”

She nods, and her hand is still on your cheek. “I love you.” 

“I… I love you too,” you bring out. “But-”

“You’re gonna protest?” she asks, eyebrows high and eyes dancing underneath. “Wanna tell me you don’t deserve it, or some such nonsense?” She doesn’t even wait for you to nod, she just cups your face more firmly, with both hands now, and goes on, “Fuck that, Helena.” You blink at the expletive and she laughs. “You heard me,” she goes on. “If this year has taught me _one_ thing, it’s to hold on to the good things that come your way. To enjoy them and cherish them and make them last as long as you can, because you aren’t promised anything, not even a tomorrow. And so,” she says, and leans in and brushes her lips against yours, “I’m going to hold on to you, and cherish you, and make this last as long as I can, and you better do the same. I had _cancer,_ Helena; I can’t do the heavy lifting by myself.”

Your eyes fly open at that last sentence, and she laughs again – she _has_ to know how that affects you – and then she’s kissing you, and oh glory be. 

She takes you apart and puts you together again, meticulous and gentle and voracious; you, in return, draw things out, and when she complains, you quote herself back at her, with her ‘making this last as long as you can,’ and she laughs and punches your arm and says that she loves you. You can’t get enough of hearing it and that’s not surprising; what _is_ extraordinary is that you can’t get enough of telling her, over and over again, until the sun has passed its zenith, until it sinks beneath the horizon, until the stars come out, until noises outside disrupt your noises within and alert you that the new year has begun. 

“Something about starting the new year the way you want it to continue,” you mutter into her clavicle and softly kiss the port scar underneath it. It’s not really eloquent, but it’s all you’re capable of anymore.

“Yes, please,” she breathes, and wraps her long, long legs around your center. 

“Happy New Year, darling,” you tell her trapezius, and “Happy New Year,” she says as she pulls your head up, and then you’re kissing again, adoring and incredulous, filled with the wonder of having found each other.


End file.
